THE CAIRN.

THE CAIRN

A GATHERING OF PRECIOUS
STONES FROM MANY
HANDS.

LONDON:
GEORGE BELL, 186, FLEET STREET.

1846.

TO THE READER.

My “Cairn” is principally raised by the hands of many friends whose honoured names are now with the dead, whose kind sympathies have cheered my checquered existence, and whose intercourse has often corrected and enlightened my mind, leading it to seek in occupation a refuge from painful feeling. These contributions, together with original thoughts, and the gleanings of my own reading, I presume to offer to the public; with the hope that where criticism finds ample cause to condemn, my acknowledged weakness may plead for indulgence. Several pages bear the record of memories associated with those dear to me, and of events long past. I presume to believe, that the perusal of the “Cairn,” cannot injure, and may not fruitlessly occupy or amuse an idle hour.

A Soldier’s Daughter.

CONTENTS.

THE CAIRN
A GATHERING OF PRECIOUS STONES
FROM MANY HANDS.

Joy and Sorrow.

Joy.

Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not feel poverty, for delight is a gold tissued robe, and crowns them with priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and mingles intoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch with roses, and makes labour ease. Sorrow doubles the burthen to the beaten down, plants thorns in the unyielding pillow, mingles gall with water, adds saltness to their bitter bread, clothing them in rags and strewing ashes on their bare heads. To our irremediable distress every small and petty inconvenience comes with added force. We sink beneath the additional feather chance throws on us; The grass-hopper is a burthen.

Anne of Austria.

Purgatory.

Anne of Austria, queen of Louis XIII. was extremely delicate in all that concerned the care of her person; it was scarcely possible to find lawn or cambric sufficiently fine for her use. Cardinal Mazarin used to say that her punishment in purgatory would be, her being obliged to sleep in Holland sheets!

Maternal Love.

The recollection of a Mother.

It is ever thus, whenever I am unhappy I bring distant and impossible events together, I turn to the thought of you, my Mother, for comfort, and I feel that you are not, that on earth you can never be again, that all my grief, and all my love, multiplied a thousand fold, could not recall you for one little hour; and I wish again for you, my blessed Mother, as though but just snatched from me. Time, they say, lessens grief. Yes, its constancy, not its intensity; it may give us even long intervals of peace and happiness, but when grief does return, it is strong and keen and deep as ever. How indeed can regret for such a loss be lessened? Can the thought of a Mother’s love, such a love as mine bore me, ever lose its charm, its influence? Not, I am sure, even when the reality is lost; what it was to me, so it is. Perishable things alone lose their value. Time withers flowers, but does not dim the diamond; and shall love for the being who gave us birth, the only real emanation of the Deity, that burns within us, perish as a passion of the earth? Can what is ethereal change its nature, as grosser substances? the eternal become mortal, the infinite be bounded, and what is born of the soul know death? Never!

Anecdote of Cardinal d’Estrées.

“Cæsar bishop of Laon and Cardinal d’Estrées, son of the first Marshall of France of that name, was employed in various negotiations with the Princes of Italy; but is now more remembered for his courtier-like reply to Louis XIV. That Monarch one day at dinner complained of having lost all his teeth. ‘And who is there, Sire, that has any teeth?’ said the Cardinal (Sire, qui est-ce qui a des dents?). What made the flattery the more ludicrously gross was, that the Cardinal, though an old man, had remarkably fine teeth and showed them very much whenever he opened his mouth.”

The Cemetry at Pisa.

Church-yard at Pisa.

The Church yard at Pisa is surrounded by a superb Portico, and contains earth impregnated with alkali, or calcareous salts, which reduces the dead bodies to ashes in twenty four hours.

Lady Vane.

An Ad­vertise­ment.

Whereas Frances wife of the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Vane, has for some months past absented herself from her husband, and the rest of her friends:—I do hereby promise to any person, or persons who shall discover where the said Lady Vane[1] is concealed, to me, or to Francis Harwes, Esq. her father, so that either of us may come to the speech of her, the sum of £100, as a reward to be paid by me on demand at my lodgings in Piccadilly. I do also promise, the name of the person, who shall make such discovery shall be concealed if desired. Any person concealing or lodging her after this advertisement shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour; or if her Ladyship will return to me, she may depend upon being kindly received. She is about twenty two years of age, tall, well shaped, has light brown hair, is fair complexioned, and has her upper teeth placed in an irregular manner. She had on when she absented a red damask French Lacque, and was attended by a French woman who speaks very bad English.

Vane.

January the 24th. 1737.

[1] Lady Vane was the Lady of fashion whose adventures form so interesting an episode in “Peregrine Pickle.”

Benevolence.

Delicacy of Feeling.

The best parts of human qualities are the tenderness and delicacy of feeling in little matters, the desire to soothe and please others, the minutiæ of the social virtues. Some ridicule these feminine attributes, which are left out of many men’s natures: but I have known the brave, the intellectual, the eloquent possess these gentle qualities; the braggart, the weak, never! Benevolence and feeling ennoble the most trifling actions.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

On a Tablet in the South Aisle of St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster.

Inscription.

Within the walls of this Church was deposited the body of the great Sir Walter Raleigh Kt. on the day he was beheaded in the old Palace yard Westminster Oct. 18th. 1618.

Reader, should you reflect on his errors, remember his many virtues, and that he was a mortal.

Woman’s Pride.

Alienation from Society.

A woman must have either a very good or a very bad conscience, to find happiness in a complete alienation from society.

Poverty.

Oh Poverty! or what is called a reverse of fortune, among the many bitter ingredients that thou hast in thy most bitter cup, thou hast not one so insupportably bitter, as that which brings us in close and hourly contact with the earthen ware and huckaback beings of the nether world. Even the vulgarity of inanimate things it requires time to get accustomed to, but living, breathing, bustling, plotting, planning, human vulgarity, is a species of moral ipecacuanha, enough to destroy any comfort.

Atheism.

Athéisme impossible.

Si l’impiété pouvait se comprendre, ce serait au sein des grandes villes où il ne reste presque plus rien de ce que Dieu a fait, où on ne voit pas le Ciel. Mais en présence des grandes colères de l’océan, l’homme se trouve à chaque instant dans des situations telles que la puissance de tous les hommes réunis n’en pourrait sauver un seul. Peut-on oublier Dieu, peut-on croire que les fleurs n’ont été inventées que pour être jetées au théâtre à des danseuses en sueur?—

Detraction—Montesquieu.

Calumny.

Montesquieu says, I never listen to calumnies, because if they are untrue I run the risk of being deceived, and if they be true, of hating persons not worth thinking about.

Temper.

When moralists, religionists, and philosophers of all sorts, set about reasoning on the phenomena of the world we live in, and contemplating the mass of human misery to be found therein, trace it to fearful crimes, they overlook one little cause of suffering which blights more happiness, and neutralises a greater portion of God’s bounteous favours, than all the heinous enormities of our depraved race put together. This hateful, stealthy, heart-destroying blight is often found, where every thing like atrocious vice is utterly unknown, and where many of the highest virtues flourish. All may exist, with a sour temper!

Set forms of expression—Philips.

Set forms of expression inserted for imitation, by Edward Philips, a nephew of Milton’s.

Forms of expression.

You are the miracle of friendship.

You are the usurer of fame.

My genius and yours are friends.

I will unrip my very bosom to you.

My tongue speaks the freedom of my heart.

Sure winter dwells upon your lip, the snow is not more cold.

The sun never met the summer with more joy.

It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips.

You are a white enchantress, lady, you can enchain me with a smile.

Her name like some celestial fire quickens my spirit.

Midnight would blush at this.

There’s music in her smiles.

I will, like the perfumed winde, sport with your hair. Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in, than your breath.

Would I were secretary to your thoughts.

You walk in artificial clouds, and bathe your silver limbs in wanton dalliance.

Henri Quatre.

An Answer to Vanity.

In the reign of Louis XIV. the citizens of Pau had petitioned the King for leave to place a statue of “Henri quatre” in the market place of this his native town. The only reply which the vain monarch condescended to make was to send them his own statue. Of course obedience was imperative, but in erecting the statue of Louis the XIV. they inscribed on the pedestal, “This is the grandson of our good Henri.”[2]

[2] Celui-ci est le petit fils de notre bon Henri.

Woman’s pride.

The Pride of woman, natural to her, never sleeps till modesty is gone.

A Parliament Heel.

“Parliament Heel.”

What satire can be more pointed than the term applied by seamen when desirous of ascertaining the rottenness of a ship’s lower timbers, or detecting her unsoundness, they give her what they call a “Parliament heel.”

On a new-born Child—Sir W. Jones.

On a new-born child.

From the Persian by Sir William Jones.

On Parent knee, a naked new-born child,

Weeping thou sat’st, whilst all around thee smil’d,

So live, that sinking in thy last long sleep,

Pleas’d thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe, Secretary to the Earl of Essex, who was executed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, for the same offence that brought his master to the block.

Speech of Mr. Cuffe.

“I am here adjudged to die for acting an act never plotted, for plotting a plot never acted. Justice will have her course; accusers must be heard; greatness will have the victory; scholars and naturalists (though learning and valour should have the pre-eminence) in England must die like dogs, and be hanged.

To mislike this, were but folly! to dispute it, but time lost! to alter it, impossible! but to endure it is manly, and to scorn it, magnanimity! The Queen is displeased, the lawyers injurious, and death terrible; but I crave pardon of the Queen; forgive the lawyers and the world; desire to be forgiven, and welcome death!

Woman’s Devotion.

Woman’s Love.

Look at the career of Man, as he passes through the world; of Man, visited by misfortune! How often is he left by his fellow man, to sink under the weight of his afflictions, unheeded and alone! one friend of his own sex forgets him, another neglects him, a third perhaps betrays him; but woman, faithful woman, follows him in his misery with unshaken affection; braves the changes of his feelings, of his temper, embittered by the disappointments of the world, with the highest of all the passive virtues; a resigned patience ministers to his wants, even when her own are hard and pressing; weeps with him, “tear for tear,” in his distress, and is the first to catch and to reflect a ray of joy, should but one light up his languid countenance in the midst of his sufferings: and never leave him to his misery, whilst there remains one act of love, duty, or compassion to be performed. And at the last, when life and sorrow cease together, follows him to the tomb with that ardour of affection which death alone can destroy.

Savage the Poet.

Life of Savage.

It is related in proof of the deep interest with which Johnson’s life of Savage must be perused, that Sir Joshua Reynolds, during a visit at a friend’s in Devonshire, took it up one day by accident, and so intensely did the work occupy his attention, that he continued in the same position, leaning his elbow on the chimney piece till he had read it through, when attempting to move his arm it was benumbed.

A Fable—The Hon. Henry Erskine, late Lord Advocate of Scotland.

The Musical Instruments.

A Fable.

The Beaux and Belles were gone, the Concert o’er,

And Kelly’s sprightly strains were heard no more;

Thro’ the deserted room dead silence reign’d,

And still and dumb each tuneful string remain’d;

When from the case in which a Fiddle lay

Arose a voice that said or seem’d to say:

“Basses and Tenors, Kettledrums and Flutes,

Trumpets, and Horns, Fiddles, Flageolets,

From you that solemn groan to you that squeak,

Patient attend and hear a brother speak:

Oft have I mused with sorrow and regret,

Since here confined I mourn’d my captive state,

That tho’ from Harmony our being rose,

We unconnected live, nor friends nor foes;

Nor know society, till in the band

We yield our music to the master’s hand;

Those happy moments o’er, confined again,

Silent and un-united we remain:

Let us for mutual interest then combine;

To each his different share of power assign;

And from our choice that no dissension spring,

Speak, all, and let the worthiest be our King,

Under whose reign, by man when unemploy’d,

Peace, harmony and bliss may be enjoy’d.”

He spoke, thro’ all melodious accents ran,

And the slow solemn Organ thus began:

“Much I approve my four string’d brother’s scheme,

And own it oft has been my silent theme,

And since harmonic merit mounts the throne,

I claim the royal title as my own.

Observe me well when glorious here I stand,

And with a look alone respect command.

On me has man bestow’d his utmost care,

And as he found me great he found me fair;

My front with pipes of radiant gold array’d

Above the painter’s utmost art display’d;

This made a thousand instruments combine

And all in one great, glorious whole conjoin:

Nor do I boast of outward form alone,

For Harmony has mark’d me as her own;

Has taught my sweetly solemn sounds to flow

In all the pomp and majesty of woe;

Has taught my notes on seraph’s wings to fly,

And raise the ravish’d soul above the sky;

Has made in Heaven’s own that voice rever’d,

And kings to kneel whenever it is heard.

To whom then but to me shall pow’r be given,

Who rule on earth and lead the way to heaven?”

The Organ spoke majestically slow,

And thus the brazen Trumpet ’gan to blow:

“Were size enormous or were colours bright

To strike the judgment as they strike the sight,

The world’s great empire would disputed lie

’Twixt the huge whale and gilded butterfly;

But the gay peacock vainly strives to sing,

In vain the unwieldy ostrich spreads his wing,

While music swells the homely linnet’s throat,

And on the yielding air the little swallows float.

I boast no beauty then, I boast no size,

Since nought but merit true can gain the prize:

If so, I boldly call that prize my own,

And claim, whoe’er oppose that claim, the throne.

If warlike feats, if deeds of high renown,

Bravely perform’d, on men bestow the crown,

Like right is mine, who still am heard afar,

The dreadful harbinger of glorious war;

At whose loud voice, heroic ardour springs

In the bold hearts of heroes and of kings.

With them where’er they go, I brave my fate,

With them victorious share their royal state;

Till men whene’er my glorious voice they hear,

Know that a hero or a prince is near.

Such are my claims, let me your ruler be,

Receive a hero and a King in me.”

He ended, and the silver sounding Flute

Thus strove the boaster’s title to confute:

“Brothers of Harmony, whose breathings move

The human soul to virtue, peace, and love,

Shall we be ruled by one whose dreadful breath

Spreads thro’ the world division, discord, death?

Let kings for fame forget their people’s good,

And butchering heroes wade in harmless blood,

While we endeavour, as by Heaven design’d,

To soothe and not inflame the human mind.

In the sweet shade, and by the silent stream,

I softly sing, and peace and love my theme.

To my gay notes, beneath the checker’d shade,

Dance the blithe shepherd and the harmless maid.

Far from destroying war or faithless courts

I seek the scenes where innocence resorts,

There have I learnt betimes, in virtue’s school,

The art, do you bestow the power to rule.”

Soon as the gentle Flute had spoke his claim

From every corner mingling murmurs came:

With loud commanding note the Fiddle swore

Ne’er was his preference denied before;

’Twas he that still employed the master’s hand,

Follow’d obsequious by the list’ning Band;

Nay swore, that Kelly learnt from him the art

To rule with magic sounds the human heart!

The Harpsichord, the fav’rite of the fair,

Talk’d much of them, and plac’d his merits there.

Clamour on clamour grew, each prais’d his own,

And strove his neighbour’s merits to run down;

Till frightened Harmony forsook the room,

And crashing Discord shook the lofty dome;

Up rose at last a chief of little fame,

Yet mighty use, and Pitch pipe was his name;

In steady unison he thus began,

While wonder thro’ the place in murmur ran:

“Brethren of melody, to whom ’tis given

By man, first taught the glorious art by Heaven,

The various passions of the human soul,

To raise, to soothe, to heighten, to controul;

To thrill with softest sounds the lover’s heart,

To raise his transports, or to soothe his smart;

To cheer the sinking soul with liveliest air,

To soften madness or to calm despair;

To rule the thousand sympathies that bind,

With strongest, sweetest ties, the human mind.

Such are your powers while Harmony shall reign,

By her forsaken, all those powers are vain.

His hallow’d notes in vain the Organ blows,

The Fiddle’s tone with sweet expression glows;

In vain the Flute soft blows his am’rous breath,

The strepent Trumpet speaks the sounds of death;

Vainly they strive to move the feeling soul,

Till heaven-born Harmony conduct the whole.

For me one note does all my power confine,

Employ’d for others’ uses, not for mine;

And yet, however small my compass be,

Harmonic Union you must owe to me;

For still by me, whene’er you sound alone,

Or mix in concerts, must be fix’d your tone.

Then strive no more but fix on me your choice,

Who save from discord, strife, confusion, noise;

So shall the powers of music matchless reign,

Nor has divine Cecilia come from heaven in vain.”

He said, and straight his tone, tho’ simple sound,

Conviction follow’d, and himself was crown’d.

’Tis thus, my friend, that in the human soul

The various movements Reason should controul,

While headlong sallies Prudence should restrain,

And fancy yield to Judgment’s shady reign;

If the kind muse poetic rage inspire,

Or glows the breast with patriotic fire,

If wit, that seldomer does good than harm

’Midst social scenes, shall teach the tongue to charm,

If love with sweet sensations fills the mind,

Or sacred friendship mutual bosoms bind,

Howe’er with genius, fancy, feeling blest,

’Tis Prudence must direct, or vain are all the rest.

Reflection.

Let none imagine that the bare letter of duty or even the reputation of good resolutions will bear them with “golden opinions” through a life of action, despising those means which, like the farmer’s heavy rollers, smoothen the ground they are compelled to crush. Let such persons neglect that amenity, that considerate bearing, so essential in the intercourse of life, and infallibly the return will be found a bitter harvest of aversion.

Poverty.

Print this in thy thought, that whatever virtue thou hast, be it never so manifold, if thou be poor withal thou and thy qualities shall be despised: besides Poverty is a shame amongst men, an imprisonment of the mind, a vexation of every worthy spirit. Thou shalt neither help thyself or others, thou shalt drown thee in all thy virtues, having no means to show them; thou shalt be a burthen and an eyesore to thy friends; every one will fear thy company.

Thought.

If you are wretched, the world will mock your wretchedness—if you are poor, you will be insulted and contemned—and if proud, you will be exposed to hourly mortification.

Charity twice blessed.

Though nothing can be more galling to a generous spirit than to be placed under obligation by meanness, it is purely delightful to be beholden to one of its own calibre. Charity is then indeed twice blessed, when the giver and the receiver are equally elevated above the selfish and sordid feelings of vulgar humanity.

Portrait of Charles I.

It is recorded of the celebrated Sculptor Giovanni Lorenzi Bernini, that on his seeing the painting by Vandyke which presents three portraits of King Charles I. on the same canvass, the one a front face, the other a half side, and the third a profile, the artist observed, “whoever the individual be whose likeness these three portraits represent, I am of opinion that the same will come to an untimely end.”

This painting had been expressly taken and forwarded to Rome in order that Bernini might, from the resemblance, sculpture a marble bust of the king; which accordingly he did, and King Charles, the best and greatest patron of the arts that England can boast of, was so much pleased with the performance, that he sent Bernini a very valuable ring, saying to the person whom he commissioned to deliver it, “Andate a coronar quello mano, che ha fatto si bel lavarno.”

The Ballard.

“The Ballad” was the favourite dance of the Italians. This word now used only to designate the words of a peculiar species of song, is derived from the Italian “ballare” to dance, and originally signified a dance accompanied by a chaunt. This dance was probably pantomimic, exhibiting the story of the accompanying verse by that expressive gesticulation in which the Italians of all ages have excelled.

On a Lady not celebrated for cleanliness—The late Lord Chancellor, The Lord Erskine.

On a Lady not celebrated for her attention to cleanliness.

Accept, dear Peg, in moral lays,

The thanks a grateful heart repays;

Oft has my soul, puff’d up with pride,

The truths of sacred writ denied,

And to myself I still have said,

Sure mankind ne’er of dust was made,

Till thou, dear Peg, revers’d my creed,

And shew’d me, we are dirt indeed.

Thought.

Relate your story simply, and never forget that overcharged accusations will always assume in the eyes of the court the appearance of calumny.

Lady M. W. Montague.

Spence says of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, that she is one of the most shining characters in the world; but she is like a comet, she is all irregularity, and always wandering: the most wise, most imprudent, loveliest, most disagreeable, best natured, cruelest woman in the world.

Of herself she writes, “I thank God I still retain my taste for the gay part of reading. Wise people may think it trifling, but it serves to sweeten life to me, and is at least better than the generality of conversation.” I know by experience how far the love of reading is capable of softening the cruelest accidents of life: even the happiest cannot be passed without many weary hours, and there is no remedy so easy as books, which if they do not give cheerfulness, at least restore quiet to the most troubled mind.

Gardening is certainly the next amusement to reading.

Inscrutable Providence.

The mild air gives birth to pestilence, and the whirlwind, though it uproots trees, destroys the devouring locust. God blesses in a blow, and punishes in a gift. To hasten the ripening of the fig, we pierce it; and what so sweet as the wounded pulp?

The Mother of the Cagot.

Strange but beautiful is the strength of maternal affection. This object to all others so hideous—that for earth to hide his deformity, for death to close upon his afflictions, seems a boon to be prayed for, a mercy to be acknowledged with thankfulness—in the eyes of his mother is one of hope and of interest as great as the most perfect. She weeps not that he was born, but that he dies; weeps as passionately as the parent who loses the most beautiful, the most gifted offspring: perhaps more so than if he had been beautiful and gifted, for then he would not have been exclusively dependant on her love and care. Is it not right there should be a source in the desert as well as in the valley? Blessed is the illusion the mother’s heart lends to her eyes! yet alas! for the “Cagot,” the earth brings forth healing herbs in vain, the Church withholds her rites in vain. Their degradation, their destitution is appalling.

Virtue of Absence.

As the storm which bruises the flower nourishes the tree, so absence, which starves a weak affection, strengthens a strong one.

Overstrained Feeling.

Strain the Bow, and the arrow swerves; such is the case with the mind.

The Essex Ring.

Lines written by Buchanan, in the year 1564, and sent by Mary Queen of Scotland, with a diamond ring, to Elizabeth Queen of England.

This Gem, behold, the emblem of my heart,

From whence my Cousin’s image ne’er shall part;

Clear in its lustre, spotless does it shine;

As clear, as spotless is this heart of mine.

What tho’ the stone a greater hardness wears,

Superior firmness still the figure bears.

This is the same ring so celebrated afterwards as that given by Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex, and intrusted with a prayer for his life by that unfortunate nobleman to the Countess of Nottingham, who perfidiously concealed her mission till the solemnity of a death-bed influenced her to disclose the circumstance to the Queen. The ring is now in the possession of the descendant of Sir Thomas Warner, to whom it was given by King James I.

Reflections.

I regret the not having oftener noted down the hopes and agitations which have often influenced my feelings: it would have furnished some apology for that fitful and impatient inequality of manner, which has arisen from the strain of feeling which each hour has brought with it—the pain arising from the ineffectual struggle to obtain the credit for good intentions, and the just appreciation of my motives.

I begin to find every effort vain; and after years of anxious labour and personal sacrifice, I have only reaped one certain harvest—the just valuation of my fellow beings; so different from what I saw it under happier circumstances. I have acquired the certainty that the poor are made poorer, the sorrowing more sad, whenever it is from a fellow worm we look for aid or comfort; and that the best, the most upright intentions will not shield the unprotected from those who are only strong from our incapacity to resist.

A Prayer.

Flacourt’s History of Madagascar contains the following sublime Prayer, said to be used by the people we call Savages.

“O Eternal, have mercy upon me, because I am passing away. O Infinite, because I am weak. O Sovereign of life, because I draw nigh to the grave. O Omniscient, because I am in darkness. O All bounteous, because I am poor. O All sufficient, because I am nothing.”

Letter from his late Majesty, King William IV.

From his late Majesty, King William IV. to Sir Charles Shipley, on his release from a French prison, through the heroic exertions of his wife.

Richmond, January 6th, 1796.

Dear Sir,

Last week I received yours of the 31st and Mrs. Shipley’s of the 8th of October, by which I am happy to find you have at last effected your exchange, and that you have the additional satisfaction to receive it at the hands of your affectionate wife. My best wishes and compliments attend Mrs. Shipley. Assure her from me I shall always preserve her letter as a proof of her real affection for her husband and children. I hope and believe the time will come when I shall have the power to exert my friendship in your behalf; and be persuaded, that this instance of Mrs. Shipley’s fortitude and exertions for her family will ever find in me the warmest friend. I shall be happy to hear from you of those events which may both tend to the honour of our country and the advantage of you and your family. Adieu, my dear friend: God bless you and yours again and again, and ever believe me, my good Sir,

Yours sincerely,

William.

Joan of Arc.

It is not possible to reflect on the fate of this hapless Visionary without the deepest interest: whether she be considered as really believing herself as Heaven-sent, or as a young and uneducated enthusiast, quitting her humble path in life, and by the sole aid of her own talents obtaining the confidence of the greatest heroes of the day. If policy rendered her a necessary victim to its purposes, it must be lamented that such was the case.

Her statue in the market place at Rouen, is the first object to which the Cicerone of that town conducts the curious traveller; but I would recommend my countrymen to avoid this spot: as an Englishwoman I felt uncomfortable, when I turned from the meek placid features shaded by the plumes of the warrior’s casque. The comments of my Norman guide were needless, and in reply to his invectives against “les Anglais,” I could only sigh, “’Tis true, ’tis pity—pity ’tis ’tis true.”

“Jeanne d’Arc, known by the designation of the ‘Maid of Orleans,’ was born at the village of Domremi sur Meuse, and was a servant at an inn: being endowed with bodily strength, and a hardihood of character beyond her sex, she introduced herself to the brave Dunois, as the chosen champion of France, and distinguished herself in the cause of Charles VII. She was taken prisoner at Compiegn in 1430, and conducted to Rouen, where, being condemned as a sorceress by the Ecclesiastical Power, to which she was given up by the English chiefs, she was burnt alive in the public market place. In speaking of this unfortunate Amazon, Malherbe aptly observes that, having lived like Alcides, it was just she should die as he died.

L’ennemi tous droits violant,

Belle Amazone, en vous brûlant

Témoigna son âme perfide;

Mais le destin n’eut point de tort;

Celle qui vivoit comme Alcide,

Devoit mourir comme il est mort.

Bear and forbear.

The longer I live in this world of roses and thorns, the more I learn to revere those philanthropic axioms, “Bear and forbear,” “Live and let live,”—and to reverence a faith, whose Christian founder has made it a condition of having our trespasses forgiven, that we should forgive the trespasses against us.

A gentleman.

Liberality and generosity of feeling is the surest test of a gentleman.

The awakened Idolater.

Until I sought and found the living God, I was an Idolater. I asked the carved wood to lengthen my days, and the sapless image to give me health. I fashioned a statue of molten silver, and bowed down before the works of my hands. I adored the brute nourished by my care, and demanded protection from the herbs planted by my labour. But when I reflected that all things perished, I asked how I could be indebted for life to that which could not ensure life to itself? The glorious sun then appeared to me deserving of worship, until my mind enquired by whom that sun was made.

I examined the texture of a flower, and called it admirable: I watched the motions of an insect, and beheld its organs perfect: I strove to build a nest, but the sparrow was the better workman. I saw the cranes fly against the wind, and the fishes against the stream, and I asked, who had taught them thus to protect their feathers and their scales. I marked the birds of passage, and said to the new-fledged swallow prepared for flight, Why thus leave thy home for distant and unknown regions? Wilt thou find good and congenial air whither thou goest? Who instructs thee when to depart? Who will guide thy course through the trackless firmament? and how wilt thou know the season to return? I saw the woodpecker turn her eggs, that they might equally receive the vital warmth; and the partridge trail her wing before the ensnarer, to beguile his footsteps from her young. I observed that the wild beasts slept while man was abroad, and that they sought their prey while man slept. How equally, said I, are the waters balanced, and how great the influence of the stars! The movements of the planets, the changes of the moon, the repelling and attracting qualities of the sun, all—all alike marvellous and sublime. Whom do these things obey? what hand doth direct the great machinery of the universe? and for whom were all these goodly wonders created? I then looked upon myself: I examined my limbs, my powers, my senses. There is a Providence! I cried, and the idols of wood dropped from my hand. There is but one God! I exclaimed, the Almighty, Creator of all things in heaven and on earth, Source of all good and harmony; and henceforth, Him only will I worship!

Henry IV. of France.

Henry IV. of France.

“Henry, par la grâce de Dieu, roi de Navarre, prince souverain de Béarn, premier pair et prince de France, s’oppose à la déclaration et excommunication de Sixte V. soi-disant pape de Rome, la maintient fausse et en appelle comme d’abus en la cour des pairs de France, desquels il a l’honneur d’être le premier; et en ce qui touche le crime d’hérésie, de laquelle il est faussement accusé par cette déclaration, dit et soutient que Monsieur Sixte, soi-disant pape, sauve sa sainteté, en a malicieusement menti, et que lui-même est hérétique. Ce qu’il fera prouver en plein concile libre et légitimement assemblé; auquel, s’il ne consent, et ne s’y soumet, comme il est obligé par ses droits canons mêmes, il le tient et déclare pour anté-christ et hérétique: et en cette qualité veut avoir guerre perpétuellement irréconciliable avec lui; proteste cependant de nullité; et de recourir contre lui et ses successeurs, pour réparation d’honneur et de l’injure qui lui est faite, et à toute la maison de France: que si, par la passé, les rois et princes ses prédécesseurs ont bien su chatier la témérité de tels galans, comme est ce prétendu pape Sixte, lorsqu’ils se sont oubliés de leurs devoirs, confondant le temporel avec le spirituel: le dit roi de Navarre, qui n’est en rien inférieur à eux, espère que Dieu lui fera la grâce de venger l’injure faite à son roi, à sa maison et à toutes les cours des parlemens de France, sur lui et ses successeurs; implorant, à cet effet, l’aide et secours de tous les princes, rois, villes et communautés vraiment chrétiennes, auxquelles ce fait touche: aussi, prie tous alliés et confédérés de cette couronne de France, de s’opposer, avec lui, à la tyrannie et usurpation du pape et des ligués conjurateurs en France, ennemis de Dieu, de l’état, de leur roi, et du repos général de toute la chrétienté. Autant en proteste Henry de Bourbon, prince de Condé. Affiché en la ville de Rome, le 6 Novembre, 1585.”

Cette protestation fut placardée pendant la nuit dans les rues principales de Rome, contre les palais des cardinaux, et sur les portes même du Vatican.

Time.

Time.

Time is but a name; it is what is done in time that is the substance: what are twenty-four centuries to the hard rock, more than twenty-four hours to man, or twenty-four minutes to the ephemera? Are there not periods in our own existence in which space, computed by its true measure of thoughts, feelings, and events, mocks the penury of man’s artificial scale, and comprises a lifetime in a day.

Charles I.

Charles I.

Authorised by the doctrines of the age, by his consequent education, and by the natural gravity and elevation of his own mind to ascend the throne as the anointed of his Creator, it was the doom of Charles I. to witness the divine authority of his crown trampled upon, the might of his magnificent hierarchy overwhelmed, the civil institutions of his realm swept away, all that he deemed sacred profaned, all that he revered denied, all that he considered established subverted, and in their stead new doctrines and new practices introduced, much of which was monstrous, and all extraordinary. In this unparalleled state of affairs, instead of disappearing from the stage like an insignificant actor overwhelmed by the unexpected importance of his part, we find on the contrary the English monarch the most energetic and the most interesting personage during the long, the fearful, and the dubious struggle. When the struggle was over, the king came forward, and closed his career by a most miserable death—dying with the same decision with which he had lived; and while he was covered with execration and obloquy as the tyrant, by one party, who feared that if he were not a tyrant, they might perhaps be considered traitors, he was hailed by the greater portion of the nation with tears and prayers as the martyr.

Merit and good Fortune.

Notre mérite nous attire l’estime des honnêtes gens, et notre étoile celle du public.

The Petition of a Monkey—Lord Erskine, late Chancellor.

The late Lord Chancellor Erskine was at the commencement of his career in life in the army, and when a young Ensign was quartered at Minorca, under the command of General Johnston, whose wife, the Lady Cecilia, had a favourite monkey, which had so incurred her disgrace from its mischievous propensities, as to have been ordered to be sent out of the house. Mr. Erskine having learnt the sad fate which awaited the culprit monkey, and being invited to dine at the Government house, wrote the following lines, and placed them in Peter’s paw; they were thus offered to his mistress’s attention as the party passed on to the dining room, and obtained Peter’s pardon.

The Petition of a Monkey under Sentence of Exile.

The humble petition of sorrowful Peter!

With submission set forth, and runs thus in metre.

I think if I’m rightly informed of the crime

For which I am banish’d, it stands thus in rhyme;

For tearing of books, for mischief and stealing,

And tricks of all kinds, from the ground to the ceiling.

All culprits are punished, if Lord Coke says true,

Not for love of revenge, but for harm that they do;

On this common maxim my pleadings I found,

And th’ affair of the book must soon fall to the ground.

There was never a book, I’ll be bound to engage,

Above all, in our day, but might well spare a page,

And mankind, as well as e’en authors, might look

With smiles on a monkey devouring a book.

’Tis as well for a volume, I’ll hazard an oath,

To be chew’d by a monkey, as by critic or moth:

And then, as to reading, all wits have confest it,

You never can profit, unless you digest it;

And monkeys and men, from the north to the south,

Can only digest what they put in their mouth.

Much more might be said, if I chose to enlarge,

But I’d rather proceed to the rest of my charge.

To accuse me of mischief, and tax me with stealing,

Is really a want of all sense and all feeling,

Since Nature, who ripens the figs and the grapes,

Is no nearer kindred to man than to apes;

And the fair teeming Earth, our bountiful mother,

Loves Peter as dearly as Adam his brother.

’Tis because you are strongest, you seize upon all,

And the weakest, we know, must be forc’d to the wall.

Equipt as I am, in my shabby old gray,

I cannot quite hazard what other folks may;

But could I, yet I speak with respect and submission,

By some lucky hit get an Ensign’s commission—

I see you all laugh, but titter away,

I’m not the first monkey, I’ll venture to say.

’Tis no such hard matter to play well at cards,

And I think I should soon be the ton in the Guards.

As to height, I confess with regret I’m not tall,

But Lord A—c—m and I might parade in the Mall.

And a bag from Miss Brace,[3] with a good handsome wig,

Might, I think, pretty soon put on foot an intrigue.

What might not be done with my air, and my shape,

At a Court where ’tis the fashion to look like an ape?

What duels! what battles! what murders! what slaughters!

What tears would be shed both by mothers and daughters!

What groups in the anguish of cutting a horn,

Would wish in despair I had never been born!

Yet faith, to my sorrow I fear I should see

Ten thousand much more like to monkeys than me,

And mad for some fair one might steal forth to meet her,

And find her eloping with some other Peter.

Yet spite of these rubs, I should have the renown,

To be one of the finest young fellows in town.

Then since exile’s my fate, I implore with a tear,

To be shipped off for England, for that is my sphere.

If to this my petition, you start no objection,

My cousin, Tom Erskine, has pledged his protection,

I suppose, like the Scots—on account of connection!

[3] A celebrated Milliner of the day. Lord Ancram was of particularly low stature.

Taste and Custom.

Taste and custom govern the opinion in this day, as in those more ancient. An Athenian and a Lacedemonian lady being placed near to each other at an assembly where they met, each hastily, and with apparent disgust, turned her head from the other. The Athenian, because she could not endure the smell of oil which came from the Spartan, and the latter from her dislike to the perfumes of the Grecian.

Filial Duty.

It was the commandment of the Eternal God himself, delivered amid the lightnings and thunders of the holy mountain, “Honour thy father and mother;” and there was no reservation found upon the tablet of stone. Man may persecute, sickness may change, grief may depress, poverty may chill, or grief may blacken the heart of the parent, but the bonds of the child are never loosened.

The affection of a child for a parent, in its strongest degree does not amount to a hundredth part of that which a parent feels for a child; and it is not until the child becomes a parent, that he is aware of this. If the voice of infancy should ever call you “Mother,” you will then know (but never till then) how hard, how impossible it is to dry up the fountain of a parent’s love, or teach the trunk to shake off and cast from it the blossoms which thence derive their being.

King of Prussia and Voltaire.

Kings who affect to be familiar with their companions, make use of men as they do of oranges; they take oranges to extract their juice, and when they are well sucked they throw them away. The King of Prussia applied this observation to himself in his dispute with Voltaire.

To a daughter on her marriage.

Dear to my heart, as life’s warm stream

Which animates this mortal clay,

For thee I court the waking dream,

And deck with smiles the future day:

And thus beguile the present pain

With hopes that we shall meet again!

Yet will it be as when the past

Twined every joy, and care, and thought,

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

Of kind affections, finely wrought?

Ah no! the groundless hope were vain

For so, we ne’er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart,

Deserve its love, as I have done;

For kind and gentle as thou art,

If so beloved thou’rt fairly won.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again.

James I.

It was said of King James I. that there were two sorts of men he never had kindness for; those whose hawks flew, and dogs ran as well as his own, and those who were able to speak as much reason as himself.

On the Death of the Hon. John Gore.

On the death of the Hon. John Gore, who commanding his Majesty’s ship Scorpion, was drowned off the coast of Africa, after having by his heroic exertions saved the lives of two of his ship’s company who had fallen overboard, February 18th, 1812.

A few months prior to this melancholy event, I was on board the Scorpion, when its noble commander at the same risk, but with less fatal consequences, rescued from a watery grave two men who had been swept overboard while taking in sail, during what is termed in the West Indies “a white squall.” This intrepid captain without hesitation sprung from the deck into the ocean, and after buffeting with the element to which he was the destined victim, he swam back to his vessel, supporting in each hand a fellow creature, preserved by his courageous exertions. Fadeless is the memory of the Hero, though “The waters have closed upon the passing furrow, and again hold on their accustomed course.”

On the death of the Hon. John Gore.

“Peace to thy noble spirit, gallant Gore;

Dried be the tear that steals down sorrow’s cheek;

Soothed be their grief, who thy sad fate deplore;

Stifled the sigh that does that grief bespeak.

Long shall the generous act that brought thee death

Live in the hearts of those who love the brave,

While friendship hallows with its latest breath

The fate that doom’d thee to a wat’ry grave.”

Abraham to Isaac.

Abraham to Isaac on his marriage with Rebecca.

Prepare thy mind to meet her, and commune with thyself on thy future moments. It is easier to win love than to retain it, and once fled it can never be recalled: be this thy care. Leave to herself the management of her household, and when she is employed therein reward her with kind looks; commend the fruits of her industry, and taste with double relish that which her hands have prepared. Flatter her not in the early days of marriage, neither subject thyself to her smiles or her frowns; for ill-placed obedience cannot long exist. But though thy helpmate must submit to thee, let thy authority fall so lightly, that she may not feel it; so shall thy hours be rich in new springing delights.

Zarapha to Rebecca.

Zarapha to Rebecca on her marriage with Isaac.

In all things seek to please him, for by increasing his felicity thou wilt increase thine own. Give way to his voice, and never let it be asked, Which of us twain shall yield? Boast not of thy perfections in his hearing, for if he truly love thee, he will be the first to discover them, and if, which God avert! his affection decrease, vanity will but give birth to disgust, and self-importance to neglect. Behold his faults with compassion, and conceal them from the eyes of thy neighbour. Refrain from frequent weeping; for when thy tears have lost their power, and flow unheeded, then hast thou lost the love of thy husband. But, above all, oh! above all, let thy mind be as open as thy hand, do nothing without his knowledge: deceive him not: Oh! never deceive him; never let even thy best intentions betray thee to act unknown to him.

Go hand in hand through life, and neither strive to linger behind nor gain upon his steps.

The Mansion of Rest.

I talk’d to my flattering heart

And chid its wild wandering ways;

I charg’d it from folly to part,

And to husband the rest of its days.

I bade it no longer admire

The meteors that fancy had drest:

I whisper’d ’twas time to retire,

And seek for a Mansion of Rest.

A charmer was list’ning the while,

Who caught up the tone of my lay;

“O come then,” she cried with a smile,

“And I’ll show you the place and the way.”

I followed the witch to her home,

And vow’d to be always her guest:

“Never more,” I exclaim’d, “will I roam

In search of the Mansion of Rest.”

But the sweetest of moments will fly;

Not long was my fancy beguiled;

For too soon I confess’d with a sigh,

That the syren deceived while she smiled.

Deep, deep, did she stab the repose

Of my trusting and unwary breast;

And the door of each avenue close,

That led to the Mansion of Rest.

Then Friendship enticed me to stray

Through the long magic wilds of romance;

But I found she meant to betray,

And shrunk from the sorcerer’s glance.

For experience had taught me to know,

That the soul that reclined on her breast

Might toss on the billows of woe,

And ne’er find the Mansion of Rest.

Pleasure’s path I determined to try,

But Prudence I met in the way:

Conviction flash’d light from her eye,

And appear’d to illumine my day.

She cried, as she showed me a grave,

With nettles and wild flowers dress’d,

On which the dark cypress did wave,

“Behold then the Mansion of Rest.”

She spoke, and half vanish’d in air,

For she saw mild Religion appear

With a smile that would banish despair

And dry up the penitent tear:

Doubts and fears from my bosom were driven;

And pressing the cross to her breast,

And pointing serenely to heaven,

She showed me the Mansion of Rest.

National Tacitur­nity.

The taciturnity of the Spaniards is attributed by Voltaire, to their horror of the influence of the Inquisition. Hence, a general jealousy and suspicion took possession of all people; friendship and sociability were all at an end; brothers were afraid of brothers, fathers of their children.

Election by Balls.

The origin of electing members by balls may be traced to the Grecians. When a member was to be elected, every one threw a little pellet of bran, or crumb of bread into a basket, carried by a servant on his head round the table, and whoever dissented flattened their pellet at one side.

Anecdote of Robes­pierre.

How often does the eye rest unconsciously upon mute inanimate objects, which, had they voices, would utter tales of stirring remembrance, and to some eyes, perhaps, do seem to speak such tales.

I was remarking one evening to a friend of my mother’s, the extreme magnificence in the style of the still beautiful though faded furniture of the apartments she occupied in Paris, and in which, at that moment, a large and gay party were assembled. “True,” replied he, “and I have seen these rooms in all their splendour, whilst their lovely, though frail mistress, dispensed her fascinating smiles upon an admiring circle. This house was fitted up by the celebrated St. Amaranthe, whose fate offers one of the most striking instances of revolutionary despotism.

“It is well known that even the stern heart of the tyrant Robespierre had felt her power, but this was no security against his atrocious cruelty. He was one of thirteen guests assembled on the preceding night in the Rue de Gramont, where he had partaken of the hospitality of the beauteous hostess. The next morning, whilst employed in the duties of his toilette, his Secretary observed to him that he had drunk too freely the night before. ‘What leads you to think so?’ inquired Robespierre, ‘Your unguarded conversation, Citizen, which I do not think passed unobserved, either by St. Amaranthe or her guests.’ ‘It matters not,’ said the tyrant with apparent indifference, ‘they will do me no harm,’ writing at the same moment a note which he dispatched by a servant, and then with the utmost composure continued to shave himself.

“That note conveyed his orders for the arrest of St. Amaranthe and the eleven individuals who had supped with her, one of whom was her son, a boy of thirteen; and on the following day, the only two of the party of fourteen who were not led to the guillotine were Robespierre and his Secretary.

“St. Amaranthe dressed herself with peculiar care for her execution, and a person who by chance saw her pass in the fatal cart which conducted her to death, described to me the beauty and elegance of the figure, around which the most tastefully arranged draperies of yellow crape floated on the air.”

The Old Woman and her Ass—The Hon. Henry Erskine, Lord Advocate of Scotland.

The Old Woman and her Ass.
A Fable.

In Durham’s venerable spire,

So justly famous for its choir,

Each Sunday, when the organ’s sound

Did from the sacred walls rebound,

A gentleman, some say of note,

Joined with the choristers his throat

To praise the Lord, or show his skill,

I know not; be it as it will,

With open mouth and lifted eye

He made the solemn cadence die;

And when they raised the sacred song,

His voice was heard above the throng.

The cause of all this strange emotion,

Some said was pride, and some, devotion.

One youth with vanity elate

Observed that near a woman sat,

Adown whose ancient wrinkled face

The trickling tears did run apace;

With kerchief clean she wiped her eyes,

And stifled, as they rose, her sighs.

The songster harbour’d not a doubt

How this emotion came about:

He knew his voice had pleas’d each ear,

But ne’er before had drawn a tear;

He knew he oft had charm’d the young,

And joy’d that age now felt his tongue.

The service o’er, the crowd retires,

His pride a secret wish inspires,

To know from Goody what soft part

Of all his song had touch’d her heart.

As from the church she hobbling came,

He thus address’d the ancient dame:

Goody, a word—I won’t detain you,

I think of late I oft have seen you

Melted in tears; do pr’ythee tell

The piteous cause for which they fell.

The dame replied, Some time ago,

The time when first began my woe,

I had an ass in my possession,

For selling brooms is my profession;

He bore my besoms, drew my cart,

And was the darling of my heart:

Each night, I turn’d him to the wood

To browse the bushes for his food.

One night, when all was calm and still,

Some wicked foxes from the hill,

Attack’d the honest, harmless beast,

And of his carcass made a feast.

Excuse me, Sir, if when I hear

Your worship’s voice, I shed a tear:

When it so loud and shrill does rise,

I think I hear poor Cuddy’s cries:

So like his braying is your shake,

My very heart is like to break!

MORAL.

Ye squallers, who for singers wish to pass,

First ask, if e’er your hearers lost an ass!

Life a mingled yarn.

The web of our life is a mingled yarn. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if not redeemed by our nature.

Henry VIII. and Francis I.

At the interview between Henry VIII. and Francis I. which took place at Guisnes, Henry and his English cavaliers wore on their crests the Hawthorn, a cherished though humble badge, from the circumstance of Henry VII. having placed on his head, in Bosworth Field, the crown of England, which had been discovered in a hawthorn bush. It was on this occasion, that when Henry was about to read the articles of the treaty the monarchs had met to execute, that instead of designating himself King of France, he stopped abruptly after “I Henry, King of England,” and exclaimed, “No, not the King of France: I should be an impostor if I claimed that title, for the King of France is here!”

Anecdote of Torregiano.

Torregiano, a native of Florence, who came to Seville in 1520, was employed by the Duke of Arcos in making an exact copy of a statue in clay, which had been executed by himself, and which was greatly valued by all connoisseurs. When it was finished, the Duke paid him in maravedes, and the quantity was so great that two men were required to carry it to his lodging.

The artist rejoiced in this liberal payment, as he supposed it, but on opening the bags and ascertaining that they contained copper, and not silver, and that the value was trifling, he became furious, ran to the palace of the Duke, and before his face, broke the statue in pieces. The figure being an image of our Saviour, he was accused of heresy, and consigned to the Inquisition, and that tribunal sentenced him to a severe castigation, which the indignant artist escaped by starving himself to death in prison, previous to the time appointed for the execution of his sentence.

Decline of Families.

Families decline as do empires; each succeeding day some part of life’s ancient honours are lost: the descent that leads to adversity is precipitate and rapid. Children detach themselves from their parents: parents separate themselves from their children. Thus all fades, till the last great scene lets fall the curtain of death and oblivion.

Thought.

Il y a des personnes à qui les défauts sient bien, et d’autres qui sont désagréables avec leurs bonnes qualités.

Confiance.

La confiance fournit plus à la conversation, que l’esprit.

Robert Bruce.

Bruce, like many other heroes, was an observer of omens, and a singular instance is recorded by tradition.—After he had been four times defeated in his attempts to recover and secure the crown of Scotland, he was on the point of abandoning all future opposition to what appeared to be his fate, and to go to the Holy Land. It chanced that his eyes, as he was thus pondering, were attracted by the exertions of a spider, which, in order to fix his web, endeavoured to swing himself from one beam to another above his head. Involuntarily he became interested in the pertinacity with which the insect renewed its exertions after failing six times; and it occurred to him, that he would decide his own course according to the success or failure of that of the spider. At the seventh effort the insect gained its object, and Bruce, in like manner, persevered and carried his own.

Hence, it has been held unlucky and ungrateful, for any one of the name of Bruce to kill a spider!

How to meet afflictions.

Dissipation of mind, and a length of time, are the remedies to which the greatest part of mankind trust in their afflictions; but the first of these works a temporary, the second a slow effect, and both are unworthy of a wise man. Are we to fly from ourselves that we may fly from our misfortunes, and fondly imagine that the disease is cured because we find means to get some few minutes from pain? Or shall we expect from Time, the physician of brutes, a lingering and uncertain deliverance? Shall we wait to be happy, till we can forget we are miserable? and owe to the weakness of our faculties a tranquillity which ought to be the effect of our strength? Far otherwise, let us set all our past and present afflictions at once before our eyes; let us resolve to overcome them, instead of flying from them, or wearing out the sense of them by a long and ignominious patience; instead of palliating remedies, let us use the incision knife and the caustic; search the wound to the bottom, and work an immediate and radical cure.

Soho.

So ho.

To the north of the Earl of Leicester’s house, from Leicester Square, stood King’s Square, on one side of which was the Duke of Monmouth’s house, after whose execution his friends changed the name to Soho Square; So ho! being the watchword with which he advanced to the fatal battle of Sedgemore.

Loss of a Parent.

Loss of a Parent irreparable.

If there are sufferings which, however dreadful in their endurance, are yet susceptible of amelioration, the sorrow which a parent’s loss awakens is not among the number; other ties may be replaced, other affections may be restored, but when death breaks the bond of filial love, nature, honouring the most sacred of her feelings, forbids a sentiment less pure, less strong, succeeding to it; and though the tear which sorrow sheds upon the parent’s grave may be dried by time, the loss which bids that tear to flow can never be replaced by human tenderness or human power.

Fruit.

Physicians, says Petrarch, regard fruit as almost equally poisonous with aconite and henbane; if this be true, surely Nature is a cruel step-mother to have given to fruits such beauty of colouring, such a delightful perfume, and so agreeable a taste, purposely to seduce and draw us into the snare. Would a good mother present poison to her children, covered with honey?

Thought.

On parle peu quand la vanité ne fait pas parler.

Anecdote of Frederick the Great.

Frederick the Great, on the death of one of his chaplains, being desirous of replacing him by a man of talent, took the following mode of ascertaining the qualifications of the candidate for the nomination. He told the applicant that he would himself furnish him with a text the following Sunday, from which he was to preach extempore. The clergyman accepted the offer. The whim of such a probationary sermon was spread abroad widely, and at an early hour the Royal chapel was crowded to excess. The King arrived at the close of the prayers, and, on the clergyman’s ascending the pulpit, one of His Majesty’s Aides-de-Camp presented him with a sealed letter. The preacher opened it, and found nothing but a blank paper, yet in so critical a moment he did not lose his presence of mind. “My brethren,” said he, turning the paper on both sides, “here is nothing, and there is nothing; out of nothing God created all things.” And he proceeded to deliver a most admirable discourse on the wonders of the creation.

Thought.

On ne se blâme que pour être loué.

Thought.

It is a poor wit that jests at poverty.

Equity.

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,

Nor crush that helpless worm;

The frame thy scornful looks deride

Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,

From whom thy being flowed,

A portion of his boundless love

On that poor worm bestowed.

The sun, the moon, the stars he made

To all his creatures free;

And spreads o’er earth the glassy blade

For worms as well as thee.

The crown to awe, the rod to smite,

Is man’s by law divine:

But sacred be each humble right

That clashes not with thine.

Let savage prowlers of the wood,

With thirst or hunger bold,

Let poisonous foes by land or flood,

Let plunderers of the fold,

Let pilferers of the hoarded grain,

To justice victims die;

But injure not the harmless train

That creep, or walk, or fly.

Let them enjoy their little day,

Their lowly bliss receive:

O! do not lightly take away

The life thou canst not give.

Mussulman.

The Mussulman law divides into two classes all the inhabitants of the earth: those who profess the faith of Mahomet are called, without distinction of rites, sects, &c. “Musslem,” which in Arabic signifies a person resigned to God, the dual of which is Mussulman. The nations who deny the divine mission, and reject the doctrine of the prophet, are confounded under the common denomination of “Keafid,” infidel, or blasphemer; a wretch wandering in darkness, whose eyes are shut to the light of revelation. Thus all infidels form but one people.

Matthias, Count Thurnes.

Matthias, Count Thurnes’, Address to the Feudal Nobles of Bohemia.

There remains now no room for repentance, and no plea for forgiveness. The die is thrown. We must embrace freedom or the scaffold: men of principle, if conquerors, men of conscience, and independent; but if overcome, poor, perfidious beings, perjured and rebellious traitors.

Sir Thomas More.

During his confinement in the Tower, Sir Thomas wrote the following lines on the wall of his prison chamber, with a coal, for ink he was not allowed.

“Ey, flatterynge fortune, looke you never so fayre,

Nor never so pleasantly begin to smyle,

Although thou wouldst my ruynes all repayre,

During my life thou shalt not me beguyle;

Trust, I shall, God, to enter in a while

Thye haven of heaven, sure and uniforme,

Ever after thie calme, looke I for noe storme.”

Of the several foreigners entertained and patronised by Sir Thomas More, Erasmus was the most esteemed: but he was irritated and offended by an epigram addressed to him from Holland, to which place Erasmus had taken a horse of Sir Thomas More’s, sent for the purpose of conveying him to the coast.

Key to Happiness

The Key to Happiness.

A susceptibility to delicate attentions, a fine sense of the nameless and exquisite tenderness of manner and thought, constitute in the minds of its possessors the deepest under current of life: the felt and treasured, but unseen and inexpressible richness of affection. It is rarely found in the characters of men, but it outweighs, when it is, all grosser qualities. There are many who waste and lose affections by careless and, often, unconscious neglect. It is not a plant to grow untended; the breath of indifference, or rude touch, may destroy for ever its delicate texture. There is a daily attention to the slight courtesies of life, which can alone preserve the first freshness of passion. The easy surprises of pleasure, earnest cheerfulness of assent to slight wishes, the habitual respect to opinions, the polite abstinence from personal topics in the company of others, unwavering attention to his and her comfort, both abroad and at home, and above all, the careful preservation of those proprieties of conversation and manner which are sacred when before the world, are some of the secrets of that rare happiness which age and habit alike fail to impair or diminish.

John de Pelham.

The Pelhams.

John de Pelham, knighted by Edward III. was the person who first laid hold of the French King’s belt, when he surrendered at the battle of Poictiers; and it is from that circumstance the descendants of Sir John Pelham, and Dukes of Newcastle, who are lineally so, wear the buckle of a belt as a badge in their armorial bearings.

A Prayer on the Prospect of Death.

O Thou unknown, Almighty cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence in an hour

Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wandered in those paths

Of life I ought to shun,

As something loudly in my breast

Remonstrates I have done,

Thou knew’st that thou hast framed me

With passions wild and strong,

And listening to their winning voice

Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has run short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All Good, for such thou art,

The shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d,

No other plea I have

But thou art good, and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

Thought.

L’experience du monde brise le cœur, ou, le bronze.

Whitehall.

The old Palace of Whitehall occupied a considerable space along the banks of the Thames, contiguous to where Westminster Bridge now stands; commencing at the present Privy Gardens, and ending near Scotland Yard. It extended also from the River to St. James’s Park, along the boundary of which, including the Cockpit and Spring Gardens, many of its buildings were situated. Hubert de Burgh, Justiciary of England in the reign of Henry III. who was its first owner, left it in 1242 to the Monastery of Black Friars, Holborn, who selling it to Walter Gray, Archbishop of York, it subsequently became the property of succeeding prelates, and was the York House more than once mentioned by Shakespeare. Henry VIII. taking a fancy to it, Wolsey, as Archbishop of York, found it prudent to dispose of the Palace to that arbitrary monarch, from whose time it became the residence of the sovereigns of England till 1695, when it was consumed by fire; and Queen Anne in consequence removed to St. James’s. Henry VIII. threw a gallery across the street to the new Park of St. James’s, which was formed about the same time from the grounds of a dissolved monastery of this name, and erected on that side of the way a Cockpit, a Tennis Court, &c. Many of Cromwell’s letters about this time are dated from the Cockpit, whilst his subsequent ones are usually dated Whitehall. The Banqueting House, now commonly called Whitehall, which was built by James I. in the room of an old building devoted by Elizabeth to a similar purpose, alone escaped the fire; and still remains a monument of the purer taste introduced by Inigo Jones. It was the only part of the intended new structure built by him. The roof was painted by Rubens, 1629, who received from Charles I. three thousand pounds and knighthood for his labour.

Adieu.

“The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,

Loses its meanness in the parting hour.

When long neglected worth seems born anew;

The heart that scorns earth’s pageantry and power,

May melt in tears, or break, to quit a flower.”

Indiffe­rence.

It is easier to still the wave of passion than to break the dead Sea of indifference, which, like the Lake Asphaltes, destroys the energies of all that approach it, until, like the birds who are said to drop lifeless on its dull surface, the heart sinks to rise no more.

Unrequited Love.

Nothing is more touching than unrequited love, and unreturned friendship. I can go through all the sorrow and the sadness it must excite—the heart thrown back, the hand rejected. There is then but one shelter, one repose; it turns in upon itself, and stings that self to death!—to death? yes, the heart to death—cinder powder! and the poor frame walks about, a wonder and a speculation to its neighbour.

The Cross.

The holy ensign of the Cross was often used in dress in order to command a homage the wearer would not otherwise have received. In 1363, the father of the Doge of Venice preferred always going bareheaded to pulling off his cap to his son, until the Doge thought of placing a golden cross in front of his cap. The father then re-assumed his cap, and when he met his son pulled it off, saying, “It is not him I salute, but the cross;” and from that time the cross became an ornament of the ducal cap.

Solitude.

Solitude is the nurse of all that is good within us. The world stains what it touches, and the more we withdraw from it the better we are.

Prayer—Voltaire.

Voltaire’s Prayer.

O Dieu! qu’on méconnait, O Dieu! que tout annonce,

Entends les derniers mots que ma bouche prononce:

Si je me suis trompé, c’est en cherchant ta loi;

Mon cœur peut s’égarer, mais il est plein de toi.

Je vois sans m’alarmer l’Eternité paraître,

Et je ne puis penser qu’un Dieu qui m’a fait naître;

Qu’un Dieu qui sur mes jours versa tant de bienfaits,

Quand mes jours sont éteints me tourmente à jamais.

Method of preserving a Plant.

Method of obtaining the figure of a Plant.

A piece of paper is to be rubbed over with powdered dragon’s blood, in the manner practised by engravers, and then the small branch or leaf of which the design is required, is to be laid upon it. By means of slight friction it soon takes up a small quantity of the powder, and being then laid upon moistened paper, an impression is taken in the manner practised for lithography without a machine.

Misfor­tune a crime.

Misfortune was his crime.—Success would have silenced censure.

Grecian Tablets.

Les Tablettes des Grecs étaient des tables de bois, minces et deliées, et enduites de cire. On y écrivait avec un petit stylet de cuivre, de fer, ou d’or, pointu d’un côté, et plat de l’autre: ce dernier bout servait à effacer. Les Grecs portaient à la ceinture un étui nommé graphiarium où étaient renfermés le stylet et ses tablettes.

Christmas Day.

The feast of our Saviour’s nativity was undoubtedly celebrated in the early ages of Christianity. It is named Christmas-day from the Latin “Christi missa,” the mass of Christ, and thence the Roman Catholic liturgy is called their Missal, or Mass book. About the year 500 this day became generally observed in the Catholic church.

Christmas Boxes. The mass was called Christmas, the box, Christmas-box, for the collecting money that the priests may say masses to the Saints for those who presented them.

George IV.

Mr. Croker asked the king why he was styled “George the Fourth.” His Majesty replied, because his father was George III. Not at all, observed Mr. Croker, it is because Your Majesty is king of England, France, and Ireland, and so forth.

Ton of the French.

This is the ton of the French nation—if they lose a battle an epigram consoles them; if they are loaded with a new impost, a ballad indemnifies them. They are enlivened with a song, and the most simple and native style is always seasoned with something sarcastic and biting.

Frederick the Great.

Frederick was endowed with great self-possession and coolness: these were in one instance displayed, when the guards, having been promised an augmentation in their pay, which had not been attended to; they rose in a mutinous spirit, and marched towards the palace in order to obtain redress from the king himself. His Aide-de-Camp, alarmed at their approach, came to inform his royal master of the circumstance. Frederick, who was quietly writing at his desk, ordered his hat and sword, and went to the palace yard to meet them; without manifesting the least surprise he drew his sword, placing himself at their head, at the same moment giving the word of command, “Linksum kehrt euch marsch,”—To the left, wheel, march. Surprised by the sudden appearance of their royal master, and electrified by the energy with which this order was given, the men actually obeyed the word of command, and returned quietly to their barracks.

The Widow of Barnevelt.

The Widow of Barnevelt imploring the Mercy of Maurice, Prince of Nassau, for her Son.

“I could not ask mercy for my husband—he was innocent—but I implore it for my son, who is guilty.” This was the observation of the widow of Barnevelt to Maurice of Nassau, when interceding for her son, who in 1624 had engaged in a conspiracy to revenge his father’s death.

Filial Love.

Filial love; much more, the affection of a son to a mother, where love loses its awe, and veneration is mixed with tenderness! Filial love! the morality of instinct, the sacrament of nature and duty; or rather miscalled a duty, for it flows from the heart without effort, and is its delight, its indulgence, its enjoyment. It is guided, not by the slow dictates of reason; it awaits not encouragement from reflection or from thought; it asks no aid of memory; it is not innate, but active consciousness of having been the object of a thousand tender solicitudes, a thousand waking watchful cares, of meek anxiety and patient sacrifices, unremarked and unrequited by the object. It is a gratitude founded upon a conviction of obligations, not remembered because conferred before the tender reason could acknowledge, or the infant memory record them: a gratitude and affection which no circumstances should subdue, and which few can strengthen. A gratitude in which even injury from the object, though it may blunt regret, should never breed resentment—an affection, which can be increased only by the decay of those to whom we owe it; and which is then most fervent when the tremulous voice of age, resistless in its feebleness, inquires for the natural protection of its cold decline.”

“Aliens from nature! apostates from humanity! is there a crime more fell, more foul, is there any thing worse than a wilful persecutor of his mother? Guilty, by the general verdict of human kind!”

Lacretelle, the late member of the Academie Française, beautifully says—

“Je désire pour ami, le fils qui n’a jamais résisté aux larmes de sa mère.”

Politeness.

Politeness, that cementer of friendship and soother of enmities, is no where so much required and so frequently outraged as in family circles: in near and dear connections it is continually abandoned, and the result is, that all the illusions of life are destroyed, and with them, much of its happiness.

Submis­sion to Provi­dence.

Pain and pleasure, good and evil, come to us from unexpected sources. It is not there, where we have gathered up our brightest hopes, that the dawn of happiness breaks. It is not there, where we have glanced our eye with affright, that we find the deadliest gloom. What should this teach us? To bow to the great and only Source of light and life humbly, and with confiding resignation.

A Gentle­man.

To constitute a perfect gentleman, the best attributes of the heart and head must be combined. He who would indeed deserve that proud epithet, must be devout, courteous, and accomplished, gentle, generous, and brave; pure in word and deed, disinterested, philanthropic, and, above all, incessant and intrepid in charitably succouring the weak, the lowly, and the poor. It was once affirmed with a pious fervour almost bordering on profanation, that our Saviour was the first true gentleman that ever lived.

Love silent.

Silence in love, bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne’er so witty,

A beggar that is dumb, you know,

Deserveth double pity.

The Wandering Jew.

Note con­cern­ing the Wand­er­ing Jew.

The story of the Wandering Jew is of considerable antiquity. It is told by Matthew Paris, who heard it from an Archbishop of Armenia, who knew the man. His original name was Calaphilus, Pontius Pilate’s Porter, who when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the Judgment Hall, struck him on the back, saying, “Go faster, Jesus, go faster—why dost thou linger?” upon which Jesus looked upon him with a frown, and said, “I am indeed going, but thou shalt tarry till I come.” Soon after he was converted, and took the name of Joseph. He lives for ever, but at the end of every hundred years falls into a fit or trance, from which, when he recovers, he returns to the same age as he was when our Saviour suffered, being then about thirty years. He always preserves the utmost gravity of deportment. He was never seen to smile. He perfectly remembers the death and resurrection of Christ.

Statues.

The origin of the introduction of statues instead of columns, in architecture, is thus related. “Carya, a city of Peloponnesus, sided with the Persians against the Grecian States. When the country was freed from the invaders, the arms of the Greeks were turned against the Caryans. Upon the capture of the city, the males were put to the sword, and the women led away captives. The architects of the age, in order to perpetuate the ignominy of this people, introduced statues of their women instead of columns in the porticos of their buildings; the ornaments and drapery were faithfully copied from the attire of the women, the mode of which they were never permitted to change.

Charles, Prince of Wales.

Charles, Prince of Wales,[4]
By Lope de Vega.

Carlos Estuardo soy,

Que, siendo amor mi guia,

Al cielo de’España voy

Per ver mi estrella Maria.

Charles Stuart I am,

Whom love has guided afar;

To the heaven of Spain I came

To see Maria my star.

[4] Sung in Spain during the romantic expedition of Charles to that country, whilst his marriage with the Infanta was in agitation.

Affliction.

Afflictions are sent us by Providence to teach us to recollect our ways.

Philadelphia.

Philadelphia, City of William Penn.

This is a planned town: built according to the rectangular plan of its illustrious founder, the great and good William Penn. He who had received from his Sovereign an absolute title to the lands on the wilful subterfuge of Christian and heathen rights to the soil—but who, acting upon the principle of “uniform justice,” never would invade a foot of territory which he had not before purchased from the Indians. Penn considered immemorial occupancy superior to all other tenure, that this right of the Red-man was founded in nature, that this tenure was the free gift of Heaven, which no king, no pope, no man had a right to question, or any equitable pretence to destroy; and therefore his principles required him to commence with justice to the natural occupant of the soil. With the founder of Pensylvania, the measures he adopted, and his demeanour towards the aborigines were wise, and so happy that it became a maxim among them “never to lift the tomahawk against the race of William Penn.” The country of William Penn was called “the Poor Man’s Paradise;” poverty was unknown in all its borders.

With reference to the name given to the colony, it is stated by Penn on the 5th Jan. 1681: “This day, after many waitings, watchings, solicitings, and disputes in Counsel, my country was confirmed to me under the Great Seal of England, with large powers and privileges, by the name of Pensylvania, a name the king would give it in honour of my father. I chose New Wales, being a hilly country; and when the Secretary, being a Welshman, refused to call it New Wales, I proposed Sylvania, and they added Penn to it, though I much opposed it, and went to the king to have it struck out. He said it was past, and would take it upon him. I feared it should look like a vanity in me, and not as a respect of the king to my father, as it really was.”

Calumny.

As I have myself felt the arrows of calumny, I should be inexcusable if I readily believed what is said of others. What I have suffered ought to regulate my conduct with regard to those who may be in like manner traduced. When I have the evidence of my senses that what is said of such a one be true, I must then examine my heart, to see if I cannot discover an excuse for errors that may have been the result of weakness; and in no case ought I to pronounce a decided judgment.

Constancy.

Remember—never to divest the person of your wife of the diversity with which your imagination clothed it while she was your mistress, and be sedulous yourself in the preservation of every attraction as well of the person, as of the heart.

Recollect—that it is vacuity which requires the charm of novelty: keep the soul replete with genuine bliss, and the desire of change will never make head against the power of pure and mutual love. The cooling of the heart towards the object once adored, proceeds in general from the weakness of unoccupied hours, and the inaction of sensibility. Kind attentions mutually kept up, will always endear even indifferent persons to each other; and will not the very name of husband, and wife, lead to those attentions, to those endearments? The flame of love once raised, will burn long if fanned by both the votaries; but will inevitably expire if left only to the care of one.

The Baths of Schlangenbad.

Schlangenbad, a short distance from Mayence: the effect of the Schlangenbad waters on the skin is really wonderful; it seems like exaggeration or fancy on the part of those who have described them already, to say that one quarter of an hour’s luxurious lying under their clear soft surface, should be able to produce such an impression. Yet so it is, in sober earnest. I think it was two days at least before the effect of even one bath went off; and when, forgetting what manner of man or woman we had become in it, we afterwards happened to pass our hands over our foreheads, either for want of thought, or in search of some stray thought that had made its escape, the agreeable contact waked us suddenly to the sense of the soothing, softening influence of the waters.

Tradition.

Tradi­tions.

In the thirteenth century the two chief meals were dinner and supper, the first at nine in the morning, the supper at five in the afternoon. The greatest luxury and magnificence were displayed at those repasts, and the side tables were highly ornamented, and covered with various fermented liquors, as mead, ale, beer, and, above all, rich wines of English growth. At the celebration in London of the marriage of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and Cincia, daughter of Redmond, Earl of Provence (A. D. 1243), there were above thirty thousand dishes served at the marriage dinner.

An unlimited hospitality reigned in the castles of great barons: their gates were ever open to strangers of condition, as well as their own vassals, friends, and followers. It is evident that the immense halls to be seen in the remains of ancient structures, were built to accommodate vast numbers of guests of all ranks; and the little window above, opening from a recess of the state apartment, was evidently intended in order that the guests should be seen assembling, before the lord of the mansion and persons of dignity went down to the common repast. In the middle of each table stood a large salt-cellar, and it was a mark of distinction whether a person sat above or below the salt. Particular care was taken to place the guests according to their rank.

Sicilians.

Serenades.

It has been wittily said of the Sicilians, that no person could pass for a man of gallantry who had not got a cold, and was sure never to succeed with his mistress unless he made love in a hoarse voice. This arose from the custom of serenading the object of preference during the hours of the night, by the execution of vocal and instrumental music under their balconies. The Sicilians are a nation of poets; and the lover who cannot celebrate his mistress’s charms in verse, would be thought unworthy of her attention.

Ancient Poetry.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,

Thou would’st as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words:

The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.

The current that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage;

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamel’d stones;

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage:

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport, to the wild ocean.

Then let me go, and hinder not my course;

I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream,

And make a pastime of each weary step,

Till the last step have brought me to my love:

And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil

A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

The Hottentots.

Among the Hottentots, if a widow marries again, she is obliged to cut off the joint of a finger for every husband she marries after the first: this she presents to her new husband on her wedding day, beginning at one of the little fingers first.

Sedley.

Sir Charles Sedley.

The painter’s art is done, the features hit,

Of Sedley’s face. No art can show his wit.

He appeared in public about the year 1667, and is to be considered as one of the first among the men of genius who adorned that age. Charles II. used to tell him, that nature had given him a patent to be Apollo’s viceroy. However, he knew as well how to conceal his own excellencies with modesty, as the rest of the world knew how to value them. It was at the acting of his play called Bellamira, that the roof of the play-house fell down. But it was singular, that very few were hurt except himself. His merry friend, Sir Fleetwood Shepherd, told him, “there was so much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, house, and all.” He replied, “No! The play was so heavy, it broke down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish.”

On the Loss of a Watch—Lord Erskine.

To a Gentleman, on his complaining of having lost his Gold Watch.

Grieve not, my friend, or peevish say

Your luck is worse than common,

For “Gold takes wings, and flies away,”

And “Time will stay for no man.”

Sensibility or Indifference—Lord Erskine.

Lines by Lord Erskine, on being asked whether he preferred great Sensibility or Indifference.

The heart can ne’er a transport know,

That never felt a pain;

That point thus settled long ago,

The present question’s vain.

Who’d wish to travel life’s dull round,

Unmov’d by pain or pleasure?

’Tis reason’s task to set the bound,

And keep them all in measure.

The Stoic who with false pretence

Each soft emotion stifles,

Thinks want of feeling shows his sense,

Yet frets and fumes at trifles.

And he, who vainly boasts the heart

Touch’d by each tale of woe,

Forbears to act the friendly part

That tender heart to show.

Th’ unfeeling heart can never know,

By cold indifference guarded,

The joy, the transport, that will flow

From love and truth rewarded.

True sensibility we find

Shares in another’s grief;

And pity yields the generous mind

From sympathy relief.

The point discussed, we find this rule,

A rule both true and sad;

Who feels too little is—a fool;

Who feels too much—runs mad.

L’amicale Persévérance.

“L’amicale persévérance,” was the term by which the Countess de Lichtenau designated her connection with Frederick William II. King of Prussia. In speaking of the attachment of our Henry VIII. to the Lady Elizabeth, wife of Sir Thomas Boleyn, and mother to Anne, afterwards his Queen, Lloyd says, she was his solace, not his sin.

Epigram.

Epigram on reading an article in the Newspapers, stating that the Garrison of Dantzic had eaten their last Horse.

By the newsmen we’re told, and believe it of course,

That the people of Dantzic had eat their last horse;

In resources, how much should we Dantzic surpass

Could we only hold out, till we eat our last ass.

To the May Fly.

Thou art a frail and lively thing

Engender’d by the sun;

A moment only on the wing,

And thy career is done.

Thou sportest in the evening beam

An hour—an age to thee—

In gaiety above the stream

Which soon thy grave must be.

Although thy life is like to thee,

An atom—art thou not

Far happier than thou e’er could’st be,

If long life were thy lot?

For then deep pangs might wound thy breast,

And make thee wish for death;

But as it is thou’rt soon at rest,

Thou creature of a breath!

And man’s life passeth thus away,

A thing of joy and sorrow;

The earth he treads upon to-day

Shall cover him to-morrow.

“As the sun declines the misnamed ‘May-fly’ is to be seen emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a time till its wings are dried for flight. Escaping after a protracted struggle of half a minute from its watery birth place, it flutters restlessly up and down over the same spot during its whole era of a summer evening, and at last dies as the last streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. Yet, who shall say, that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between its four hours, and our fourscore years?”

From my Mother.